


Who Then Can Warm My Soul?

by Gloomier



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Developing Relationship, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Poisoning, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 09:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13051119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloomier/pseuds/Gloomier
Summary: The restoration of Erebor is a slow and steady process, and for the first time in a very long time Thorin Oakenshield can breathe easy knowing his people will once again thrive in a mountain of their own. Sometimes lessons are forgotten as we tread the winding path called life, and the King Under the Mountain is no exception to this fact. Thorin lets his guard down for just a moment, but a moment is all it takes to shatter the new but delicate dream he has finally forged for himself.





	1. Winter has come too late; too close beside me.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you have a very happy hobbit holiday!

It is the early hours of the morning when Thorin comes to groggy wakefulness. Thorin has been an early riser for longer than he can remember, but sometimes he wishes he were not.

With some fleeting regret he detaches himself from Bilbo, adjusts his arm and props his head up on his hand to watch his bedmate. Bilbo snuffles and attempts to bury himself deeper within the blankets and fur now that doesn’t have a Dwarf plastered to his side.

They’d been sleeping near each other since after the battle when his Dwarves, Dáin’s army, and the Men—formerly of Lake Town—moved into the mountain before winter could truly set in. Erebor had only been a half-step up from being worse than living outside, the only plus being that it meant they had shelter from the elements. The cold had been bitter—the great forges could not be lit for a couple weeks, as the system of vents and flues had to be checked before anything could be done with them, or poisonous gas would have killed them long before the cold.

Everyone was forced to sleep in groups. Thorin and his sister-sons made up one of those groups, though they remained with the rest of the company in a room all their own. Kíli managed to coax the hesitant burglar to join their little group amid a pile of musty, scavenged furs. Bilbo had squeezed in between Thorin and Fíli.

Bilbo shuffles beneath the blankets again, murmuring softly about something though Thorin can’t hear the words. He rolls to his other side, facing Thorin, and snakes his arm over the hill of Thorin’s body, scooting towards his warmth. Thorin smiles fondly down at the sleeping Hobbit.

It’s a miracle that they had all survived, considering how terrible the quest had played out, Thorin thinks. Perhaps in some other place and time he had died.

Thorin lowers his head back down on to the pillow and wiggles his arm beneath both it and Bilbo’s head. When he’s comfortable again, Thorin hooks his free arm around Bilbo’s back, holding the Hobbit close. Bilbo reacts to him, still asleep, and grabs a fistfull of Thorin’s tunic as he noses into his collarbone; Bilbo’s breath whispers against his bare skin.

It’s been a little over a year and a half since Erebor has been reclaimed—since they had taken their first steps in a reclaimed mountain—and some days Thorin can’t believe it really happened. He can’t help but be afraid thinking that one day he’ll wake up from his dream and find himself back in his bed in Ered Luin. Nights where those thoughts keep him awake are made easier with Bilbo by his side.

Thorin knows the morning bell will be ringing soon. He doesn’t want to get out of bed and pop the bubble of peace lying beneath body-warmed blankets offers, but Thorin knows he must. There is still so much to do in the mountain—he still has a lot of work to oversee, paperwork to sign, and people to deal with—and a year and a half isn’t enough time to completely restore the mountain to her old glory.

There is something to look forward to this evening, however.

The path of destruction that Smaug left behind when he tore through the kingdom had been largely repaired. It had been the second largest—next to reducing and moving the gold hoard—of the restoration projects. Thorin doesn’t believe it’s worth throwing a party for, even if the new set of gates were a sight to look upon. Dís insisted that they have a party, now that they had supplies enough to spare for such a luxury. “ _The mountain could use a bit of excitement,”_ she told him.

In the end, Thorin doesn’t okay the party because Dís thinks it’s a good idea, or because a party is needed to acknowledge one milestone completed of many yet to come. At the mere mention of a party Bilbo had perked up, and in that moment Thorin immediately made his decision to allow the party simply because he saw the pure excitement that lit up Bilbo’s eyes. Perhaps they all needed the party, but Thorin could think of no one who deserved it more than Bilbo.

Thorin noses into Bilbo’s curls, lightly peppering them with kisses.

The morning bell rings out, and Thorin sighs knowing that he can not remain in bed for very long. Balin and Dís were likely to drag him out of it, after all. Bilbo on the other hand didn’t have to worry about duties—he helps where he can all the same—which meant he was allowed to sleep in. Today, however, Bilbo has promised him—the Company as well, Thorin supposed with a long suffering sigh—a feast to remember. The Hobbit will be assisting the kitchens with preparing the fare for tonight’s festivities.

“Bilbo,” he murmurs into Bilbo’s crown of golden hair. “It’s time to wake up.”

Bilbo grumbles into Thorin’s chest, but it comes out more of a offended whine, and he tightens his hold on Thorin. Bilbo was hardly a morning person, a fact that Thorin still finds highly amusing because it had been assumed for the longest time that the opposite was true.

Thorin leans down, lips just a sliver away from touching skin, and murmurs into Bilbo’s ear, “Bilbo.”

Bilbo grumbles and speaks naught a word. There’s a split second where Bilbo tenses up, as if unsure but then he relaxes, though his fist is still tightly clenching the cloth of Thorin’s tunic. Bilbo leans away to look at Thorin with squinting eyes, crusty with sleep.

“What time is it?” Bilbo asks with a voice thick with sleep. He makes no move to throw off the blankets or roll out of bed and Thorin basks in Bilbo’s wakened presence, soaking it all in to fortify him for what would be another trying day.

“The morning bell only just rang,” Thorin answers as he lazily runs his hand up and down Bilbo’s back.

Bilbo huffs, clearly unimpressed with the fact that he must get out of bed, and tucks his head back under Thorin’s chin, as if he were trying to hide from the duties he had to attend to.

Thorin can’t help but chuckle, earning an insult mumbled into his chest.

When the fire of the forges were finally warming up the temporary living quarters, and Bilbo didn’t need body warmth from a pile of Dwarves, the room they had all stayed in was given to the Hobbit along with a makeshift bed and a few other pieces of simple furniture. Thorin and the rest of the company had their own quarters as well. Between Thorin’s recovery from his near-fatal injuries and the whirlwind of work he was sucked into, his body moved autonomously when work for the day was complete, and he had found himself in Bilbo’s bed when he woke the next morning. Thorin could never remember getting there in the first place, and it was extremely awkward for the both of them when Bilbo had awoken to make the same discovery. There were embarrassed words exchanged and a sheepish apology from Thorin (and a silent promise not to do it again).

It happened a second night, then a third, and by the fourth night Bilbo was making jokes about how inappropriate it was, even for courting couples, to share a bed. Thorin tried to joke back, saying a king could ignore such stringent courting procedures if he wished to, and no one would bat an eyelash. There were no further comments about bed sharing from that point on, but the bed sharing continued (and it had gotten more cuddlier as time went on). Thorin’s things have slowly found their way into Bilbo’s new room, now within the confines of the palace.

Bilbo releases Thorin from his grasp, though Thorin can feel Bilbo’s reluctance to let  him go, and rolls onto his back, pushing the blankets and furs off his body. Thorin retracts his arm but he’s sorely tempted to reach down and slide his hand across the bare skin of Bilbo’s belly as the hobbit stretches. Instead Thorin yanks the tunic down to cover the exposed skin, earning a wispy thank you for the effort.

Bilbo rolls out of bed, leaving Thorin the sole occupant, and walks over to his wardrobe to dig out his clothes for the day. Thorin’s eyes follow the hobbit, and no other words are shared between them. Generally, Bilbo isn’t very sociable until he’s had at least one cup of tea, but Thorin doesn’t mind. He himself isn’t very sociable until at least mid-morning, sometimes not even until noon, despite having to deal with people so early in the morning.

So Thorin watches Bilbo pull his tunic over his head to slip on a freshly cleaned, white button up. The shirt hangs off Bilbo’s shoulders, left open to reveal a large area of his torso. He turns his attention to a pair of trousers, stepping into them one leg at a time. Deft fingers make quick work of the buttons, Thorin frowns now that the bared skin is covered up and Bilbo shoots him a smirk. With the shirt tucked into the trousers the suspenders come next, followed by a waistcoat.

Bilbo steps into the bathroom, leaving Thorin alone in the room.

Thorin takes his own time rolling onto his back stretching his arms and legs out, toes curling, a light satisfied groan escapes him and he’s left feeling comfortable and boneless afterward; he’s sorely tempted to hide out in his bed all day, perhaps even play sick like he did when he was much younger. The call of duty is unfortunately stronger than his desire to lay in bed. Bilbo’s stepping out of the bathroom looking refreshed by the time Thorin is dressed and placing his coronet on his head.

“You’ll be making some of your apple pies, won’t you?” Thorin shamelessly asks as he walks up to Bilbo, his hands lightly grasping the Hobbit’s arms when there’s just a sliver of distance between them.

“Your sweet tooth is insatiable,” Bilbo chuckles. “I made you three the other day, if I remember correctly.”

Fíli and Kíli had unfortunately stolen one, the brats. The other two he devoured before anyone else thought to follow his sister-son’s example; nobody could be trusted around Bilbo’s baked goods, it turned them all into filthy traitors.

“Is that not compliment enough?” Thorin teases, letting his hands fall down to rest on Bilbo’s hips as he leans in to rub his cheek lightly against Bilbo’s.

“I suppose something could be arranged.” Bilbo snorts, rubbing his cheek into Thorin’s before gently pushing him away. “I ought to go see what’s what. I’ll see you this afternoon.” he declares.

Bilbo rises up on his tiptoes to press a kiss into Thorin’s bearded cheek before he pulls away.

“This afternoon, then.” Thorin says in resignation while savoring the lingering feel of Bilbo’s lips on his skin. His hands reluctantly let Bilbo go as he steps away. “I expect pies, Master Baggins.”

*

Today ends up being a slow day for Thorin, thankfully. Everyone is vibrating with excitement at the prospect of a party, and Thorin is starting to believe that perhaps allowing it to happen went a lot farther than just making one Hobbit happy.

He meets with this or that lord, replies to several diplomatic correspondents, and endures a mountainous bulk of paperwork that’s slowly been piling up due to Thorin’s inconsistent work schedule. He’s nearly forgotten the time when Dís pulls him off the throne, just as evening is setting in, and forces him to _“get prettied up”._ Thorin soaks in the heat of the bath water, luxuriating in its power of relaxation, pointedly ignoring the polite knocks on the door (probably from the servant Dís sent in to make sure he hurries up). He scrubs the work day off of every inch of himself when the knocking reaches an incessant tempo, and he can no longer enjoy the solace of a bath, then gets out after washing his hair.

Thorin quickly weaves two braids into his hair at his temples, and caps each end with his Durin beads. He stares into the large oval-shaped mirror, checking his work. Thorin finds it impossible not to imagine a new set of beads and braids woven in his hair. _Soon,_ he promises to himself.

When Thorin exits the bathroom of his own room, he ignores the set of red and gold clothes laid out on the bed for him. He’s not a child, nor does he require someone to choose his outfits for him, even if the recommendation comes from his own family. There is a door hidden behind a tapestry that connects his rooms with Bilbo’s—a convenience for him—and Thorin steps through it, walking down the short hallway in nothing but his pants. Thorin’s hopeful that he’ll get to see Bilbo, but he knows that the Hobbit is likely still down in the palace kitchen, helping with last minute party preparation; Hobbits were apparently very good hosts, and Bilbo refuses to cut corners.

The temptation to fall into Bilbo’s bed is incredibly difficult to ignore upon entering Bilbo’s room, but Thorin manages. From the little part of Bilbo’s wardrobe that he’s claimed for himself, Thorin pulls a high-quality ensemble of black trousers, a simple tunic and long vest in Durin blue—the vest is embroidered with geometric shapes in silver thread. A pair of salt and pepper furred, steel capped boots as well as a sapphire-encrusted, mithril-buckled belt bring the outfit together. WIth a sigh Thorin exits back into his room, placing his silver coronet back on his head before stepping out of his room.

“I had a perfectly nice set of clothes put out for you,” Dís scolds him as they walk down the corridor.

“I will dress myself, thank you,” Thorin grumbles back, rolling his eyes. To be fair, red and gold doesn’t suit him as well as blue, black, and silver do (a fact that Bilbo has stated on more than one occasion). He’s also less preferential to gold these days.

Before Thorin knows it they’re entering the feasting hall, while normally this portion of the palace is closed to the public, it’s been opened up to everyone for the evening. There are many tables pushed together and seem to spill out into a sizable courtyard adjacent to the hall. And already the tables are creaking under the amount of food laid out on them, many Dwarves already milling about, waiting for the party to really begin.

Bilbo’s standing near the table at the head of the room, on a low-rise dais, chatting to Bofur and Kíli. The Hobbit seems to feel his gaze and turns to meet Thorin’s eyes, beaming him with another bright smile; Thorin feels like a cat soaking up rays of sunshine. He returns Bilbo’s smile with one that Bilbo calls his secret smile, the one Thorin only shares with him. Thorin’s feet gain a mind of their own and alter Thorin’s course, sending him towards Bilbo, but Dís’ hand locks around his bicep like a vice.

“You still have to give a speech,” she hisses at him, redirecting him towards the head table with a hand on his arm.

Dís would be ecstatic to know that he hadn’t prepared any words for this evening. Which is perhaps the reason why she’s shooting him unimpressed looks as he thanks the guests for coming, and that their hard work thus far is a solid step forward in shaping a newly reclaimed future. Dís looks down right exasperated as he goes on to say that none of this would be possible if it weren’t for Bilbo Baggins. Yes, he most certainly did name every title Bilbo had claimed for himself, as well as the few bestowed upon him by the rest of the company and Thorin himself, but the king would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy watching Bilbo’s face turn a darker shade of red for each title named.

His speech was worth the angry words growled into his ear afterward, and the exasperated look from not only Balin, but Dwalin as well.

Truthfully speaking, Thorin didn’t say any of those things lightly. Laying it on thick would be kissing Thranduil’s ass so he didn’t get chewed out for pissing on diplomacy.

Thorin says as much when they’ve sat down to eat.

“You didn’t write anything, did you?” Bilbo asks, already reaching to fill his plate with seconds.

“Yet, I meant every word I spoke,” Thorin evades and stuffs a fork full of some kind of casserole into his mouth to further avoid the question. He did promise Balin that he would write something for the occasion, but between work and exhaustion he forgot. Dwalin told him once he had a penchant for coming up with speeches out of his ass.

Bilbo shakes his head, but the smirk on his lips gives away his amusement.

After Bilbo’s thirds, and pushing a whole apple pie towards Thorin—who devours it like he’s been starved up until it was offered—Bilbo drags him out into the space reserved for dancing. If it were anyone else, Thorin would have politely declined, but he would not deny Bilbo anything, even dancing. The band is striking up a quick tune as he and Bilbo reach the floor.

After the battle, when everyone was just trying to survive the winter, there wasn’t much to be happy about, nor did they have the resources to help improve morale. One day Bofur had come to Thorin after stumbling upon a shop that once crafted and sold musical instruments. Many of the instruments happened to be in good shape, so in lieu of grand feasts and festivals Bofur suggested dancing. Thorin couldn’t participate himself, given his injuries at the time, but his spirits were lifted watching his fellows dance and enjoy himself. Bilbo learned many Dwarvish dances that winter.

Their first dance is a quick paced couples dance, and their close proximity leaves Thorin breathless. It’s been decades since Thorin has danced—the last time being when Dís had gotten married; he didn’t have a chance while he was still recovering after the battle—and he’s unsure at first, but his ears recognize the tune and his body moves to the music automatically as he pulls Bilbo close. The Hobbit is oozing joy and contentment as they spin and twirl. Neither he nor Bilbo speak a word, but Thorin senses Bilbo’s utter joy through his musical laughter and infectious smile.

Bilbo manages to keep him on the dance floor as the band plays into the next song. This dance doesn’t allow Thorin to keep Bilbo close (like he wishes), as it’s more of a group dance, but the fuzzy warmth resonating within Thorin’s chest only seems to grow. When the song comes to its end, the band puts down their instruments to take a break. Thorin wades through the dancers who are vacating the dance floor, and finds Bilbo.

Thorin reaches out to touch Bilbo’s shoulder and asks, “May I borrow some more of your time?”

“I suppose I could spare some, if you really must,” Bilbo grins slyly.

Thorin pouts—which he’s been told he does very well—and walks to the edge of hall, toward a corner where there’s a little more privacy, and Bilbo follows him. On the way someone hands him a tankard of ale, which he gladly accepts.

Having a little space to themselves, _finally,_ Thorin relaxes, ready to down the entire tankard of ale until Bilbo snatches it from his hand.

“You can at least share,” Thorin grumbles as Bilbo raises the tankard up in a mock toast and then quaffs the entire thing. Thorin swallows thickly watching Bilbo’s throat move as he drinks his stolen prize.

Bilbo wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and hands the empty tankard back to Thorin, grinning. Thorin accepts the vessel and peers down into it, staring at the empty bottom sullenly; Bilbo giggles at him and Thorin feigns a disappointed frown in return.

“Call that payment for borrowing my time,” Bilbo says playfully. “Now that you have it, how do you plan to use it?”

Thorin regains a modicum of seriousness and lifts his eyes from the tankard and up to look Bilbo in the eye. Bilbo’s joyful mien doesn’t waver. Thorin’s heart begins to thump in his chest, the words he wishes to speak are stuck in his throat, and it takes a moment for him to gather his fluttering thoughts and to coax the words out. He sets the tankard on the floor and takes both of Bilbo’s hands in his.

“I’ve been dancing around this for months, perhaps even before we entered the mountain,” Thorin admits, rubbing Bilbo’s knuckles with the pads of his thumbs. “We joked about sharing a bed almost a year ago, but you’re right, it’s not really proper. However—”

Bilbo lists to the side suddenly, but Thorin is quick to react. He disentangles a hand from Bilbo’s, and lunges to steady Bilbo.

“Sorry, that was strange.” Bilbo says breathlessly, shaking his head. He looks as perturbed as Thorin feels.

“Are you tired? We can retire for the evening, if you are,” Thorin frets. He lifts his hand up to rest it against Bilbo’s forehead, but Bilbo bats it away before Thorin can get close.

“The night’s still young, Thorin,” Bilbo reminds him and retakes Thorin’s hand in his. “I’ll be fine you silly Dwarf.”

Thorin eyes Bilbo carefully—not at all convinced—and says, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Bilbo insists.

Thorin squeezes the Hobbit’s hands and picks up his threads of thought.

“If a courting pair wished to share a bed, there would be nothing to stop them,” Thorin rushes to say. His cheeks are burning pink as the last word leave his mouth; he watches Bilbo with bated breath as he waits for the answer.

Bilbo is silent, staring not into Thorin’s eyes but at his chest, a contemplative look on his face. A moment passes, which feels like an eternity to Thorin, before Bilbo looks back up at him again, determined.

“Thorin Oakenshield, are you asking to court me?” Bilbo’s questions, arching a brow at him as he tightens his grip around Thorin’s hands.

“And if I am?” Thorin rumbles, all while diminishing the space between them to nearly nothing, leaving him to loom over Bilbo.

He tugs Bilbo’s hands up to his mouth and places kisses against each one of the Hobbit’s knuckles—extremely pleased at himself as he both sees and _feels_ Bilbo shudder each time his lips connect with flesh—before hugging their joined hands to his chest.

“Then I’d say—” Bilbo begins to say until he droops to the side again, hands going slack in Thorin’s grips, and drops like a sack of potatoes to the floor; or he would have dropped were it not for Thorin’s iron grip on his hands. He gently lowers Bilbo to the ground.

“Bilbo!” Thorin yells and drops to his knees. He urgently loops an arm under and around Bilbo’s shoulders and supports his head with the other hand.

“Bilbo, wake up!” he desperately cries out as he tries to shake Bilbo awake.

Thorin doesn’t hear the dismayed and worried chatter filling the room, nor does acknowledge several of the Company rushing over to his side.


	2. How can I chase away, all these fears deep inside?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Inaccurate, warped, and dramatic use of poison (and half accurate medical treatment).

Thorin doesn’t remember falling asleep as he comes to consciousness, the room is dim when he opens his eyes.

He groans, his head throbbing mercilessly, as he sits up. He’s been laid out on a sofa for an indeterminate amount of time, not knowing how he got here and under what circumstances. He swings his legs over the edge of the sofa and cradles his head in his hands, trying to remember. He recalls attending the party and speaking with Bilbo before he snarls wordlessly in frustration.

Thorin lifts his head again, noticing the room he’s been put in is in fact his own receiving room in his chambers. With little else for him to do besides sit in the dark, Thorin stands and heads for the door hoping that someone knows what in Durin’s beard is going on.

The corridor is brighter than his chambers, forcing Thorin to squint when he exits. There are still guards posted at each end of the hall; nothing seems amiss but it does little to sooth the seemingly random panic fluttering around in his chest.

Balin, he thinks, will know what happened, so he all but sprints towards the Adviser’s office. His body is moving with an urgency his mind doesn’t understand, so Thorin bursts into Balin’s office without a second thought, the handle of the door collides with the stone wall as he throws it open.

Balin is, thankfully, present but Dwalin is there with him and he looks pained, and that is definitely a grimace on his face when he looks over his shoulder at Thorin.

“Something’s going on.” Thorin pants, a fair amount of anxiety coloring his tone.

“What do you mean, Thorin?” Balin asks calmly. His neutral expression gives nothing away and only serves to worry Thorin further.

“I-I was asleep. I don’t—No, I must have been knocked out.” Thorin replies, tripping over his words. He knows what it’s like to be knocked out, what he doesn’t know is _why._

There’s a pain in Dwalin’s eyes, Thorin can see it now; he can even see it in Balin’s eyes despite his diplomatic facade. He steps further into the room, making sure to close the door behind him, and approaches the brothers.

“I need to know what’s going on. What happened?”

Balin’s expression crumbles, there is sorrow carved into his face and Thorin’s stomach plummets. What happened? Was it Dís, or the boys? One of the company?

“Bilbo.” Dwalin says in a shaky rush of air.

_What?_

“What do you mean, _Bilbo?”_ Thorin asks, voice cracking when Bilbo’s name rolls of his tongue. “What happened?” he repeats.

“What do you remember?”

_“Where’s the damn stretcher!?” Óin bellows. “Time’s a wastin, you incompetent fools!”_

_Thorin is dazed, his ears are buzzing; he’s hurting, but a physical wound would be preferable to what he’s feeling in this moment: soul-tearing agony. The little part of the room he and Bilbo had occupied is now filled with Dwarves and Thorin can’t seem to catch his breath, it’s been sucked out of him._

_He roughly shoves Óin away and scoops Bilbo into his arms. The hobbit is deathly pale and is making a good go at imitating a ragdoll. He ignores Óin’s angered shouts as he plows his way through the group encompassing the little pocket in the corner, followed closely by Óin and Dwalin, and escapes into the corridor._

_He allows Óin to steer him toward Bilbo’s room, but Thorin pays little attention to anything except Bilbo, limp in his arms.  The anger doesn’t hit him until they’ve made it to the Hobbit’s chambers and Thorin is laying Bilbo on his bed, the same bed that they shared just that morning._

_The anger is white-hot and coursing through his veins like molten metal, and he unleashes it upon an unsuspecting Óin who is beginning to examine Bilbo. Thorin grabs fistfuls of Óin’s shirt and aggressively pulls him away from Bilbo’s bed, throwing him into Dwalin, snarling wordless._

_“You great bloody beast! I need to get a look at Bilbo!” Óin protests loudly._

_Óin attempts to walk to the otherside of the bed, hoping to avoid getting close to Thorin._

_Thorin notices the other Dwarf getting close to Bilbo again. As he goes lunge across the bed to block Óin, his vision goes dark._

“Something happened to Bilbo.” Thorin says. His stomach drops as he gingerly fingers the tender bruise on the back of his head. What had he been thinking? “I want—I _need_ to see Bilbo.”

Balin doesn’t answer and the room goes deathly silent.

“Is he—?” Thorin says in a half sob.

“No. Not yet.” Dwalin interrupts him, resting a hand on Thorin’s shoulder in support.

Thorin’s chest is tight with sorrow, his throat constricts with trapped sobs, eyes itching to spill tears of heartbreak. “I need to see him.”

It’s Dwalin that leads Thorin to the Halls of Healing. He doesn’t say much beyond explaining that Óin couldn’t properly care for Bilbo after he’d gotten a good look at their Hobbit. _“It was poison,”_ he says.

When they arrive in the Halls, Thorin attempts to apologize to Óin who rebukes him soundly, knowing full well he’d do the same damn thing were their roles reversed.

Thorin learns that the poison Bilbo ingested was something called Black Blood, made from a poisonous black bloom that comes from Mordor. It’s a sweet tasting concoction that pairs well with alcohol, the imbiber wouldn’t suspect a thing until it was too late. It had been in the tankard of ale Bilbo had guzzled down after he had stolen it from Thorin.

The poison was meant for him and now Bilbo...

Óin tells him there might be a cure before Thorin can finish his thought. The Healer has only ever heard of the poison, but the she-elf, Tauriel, has heard of an herb that could potentially counteract the toxin. He sent her after it, and Kíli went with her.

“I need to see him.”

“It’s not pretty.” Óin warns him and leads Thorin down a hall, to the very last private room at the end. Óin makes no attempt to open the door, gesturing at it instead.

Thorin hesitates when his fingers touch the cool metal of the latch. There’s a gentle, yet firm, hand on his shoulder, much like Dwalin’s had been, squeezing in reassurance. Thorin lifts the handle and pushes the door open, Óin’s hand slips off his shoulder as he enters the room, and he pulls the door quietly shut behind him.

Thorin is paralyzed, for Bilbo lays unmoving on the cot before him. The Hobbit’s face is flushed and glistens with sheen of sweat, his chest barely moves and Thorin almost believes he isn’t breathing at all. On the table, sitting next to the bed, there’s a bowl with a black-spattered cloth sitting next to it.

It takes a lot for Thorin to take that first step towards Bilbo’s cot. He feels as though he might shatter the fragile peace within this room the moment he gets close. But Thorin takes the first step, then another until he's looming over the bed.

“I was wondering when you’d come over here,” Bilbo whispers, a tired smile curling on his face as he looks up at Thorin with half lidded eyes.

The unexpectedness of the comment startles Thorin, forcing a soft gasp from his lips. He suddenly loses his will to talk despite the fact that he wished to see Bilbo in the first place.

“Thorin?” Bilbo gently questions, displacing the pregnant pause.

Thorin crumples to his knees next to the cot and slips his hand into Bilbo’s, holding it delicately, and brings it to his face.

“I'm sorry,” he croaks, pressing a kiss to the back of Bilbo’s hand. “It should be me in this bed, in your place. I—”

Bilbo pulls his hand out of Thorin’s grip, cupping his cheek, and strokes the bare skin above the line of Thorin’s beard with his thumb to soothe him.

“Yet we would still wind up in the same situation,” Bilbo says matter of factly and tucks Thorin’s loose hair and braids behind his ear.

Thorin leans into Bilbo's touch and covers the Hobbit’s hand with his own. “And I would gladly take your place, Umzamê.” he tenderly swears.

Bilbo’s expression crumbles and leaves him looking distraught.

“Talk to me,” Thorin pleads, pulling himself up off his knees to sit at Bilbo’s side on the cot. “I would know what is on your mind, Bilbo.”

Bilbo struggles to sit up, but when he does manage it he says, “I’m afraid.”

Thorin hears the fragility in the words, the pain of them are written so clearly on his face.

“I—” Bilbo begins to say and is suddenly overtaken by wet, hacking coughs that expel blackened mucus. Bilbo’s hands are quickly splattered with it and Thorin fumbles in his rush to grab the soiled cloth from the bedside table. He quickly presses it to Bilbo’s face as he continues to cough. They’re loud painful sounding things, forcing tears to trail down from the corners of Bilbo’s eyes.

The next couple days are agony for Bilbo. It’s also trying for Thorin, who sits on the chair at the Hobbit’s bedside watching as he suffers, unable to help fight the intangible foe that plagues him.

When he's not at Bilbo’s bedside, Thorin is hounding Óin. The Healer’s fears are coming to fruition, and he tells Thorin as much, “ _The poison is affecting the Hobbit at a much faster rate than was expected."_ Bilbo is vomiting up black sludge when he isn't coughing it out of his lungs, and it worsens as hours go by.

Bilbo’s pained cries grind the fragments of Thorin’s heart to dust.

By day three Kíli and Tauriel still haven't made it back to the mountain. Óin isn't certain Bilbo will last much longer on account of he can't keep down any food or water on top of his high fever making him sweat profusely; he’s quickly becoming dehydrated. The black sludge in his lungs is making it harder for Bilbo to breath and that makes him drowsy. To make matters worse, the coughing has reached a point where it has caused Bilbo to break a rib.

The evening of the third day an ominous looking Óin pulls Thorin out of Bilbo’s room after giving Bilbo something to help him sleep.

“I don’t think Bilbo can hold on much longer, Thorin,” Óin says somberly. “His lungs are filling with fluid and there’s naught that I can do to stop it. The herbs and the ice baths I have aren’t helping to keep the fever down and it’s beginning to affect his mind—he get confused, hallucinates. If I can’t get the fever under control, he’s going to boil in his own body.”

“What are you saying, Óin?”

Óin’s breath leaves him in a whoosh of frustration. “Unless Kíli and the Elf return with the cure, and _soon,_ Bilbo won’t last the night.”

Thorin stumbles backward until his back collides with a wall. No, Bilbo can’t… _die._ His eyes fill to the brim with tears, blurring his vision, and spill down his face as he slides down the wall to the floor.

“The Wizard, can’t he do anything?” Thorin asks, desperation coloring his tone.

“Even if by some miracle the Wizard were able to pop in out of thin air, I doubt he could do anything to save Bilbo at this point. He’s made it clear on a few occasions that he’s a Wizard, not a healer.”

“So we do nothing!?” Thorin roars.

Óin huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, looking down his nose at Thorin. “I am making sure Bilbo is as comfortable as possible. _Tauriel_ and _Kíli_ are out looking for medicine.”

Thorin grits his teeth but remains silent, feeling suitably chastised for his hastily uttered words.

“I know you’re hurting, Thorin, _I know,_ but there’s little else to do. I’ve been sending ravens out since the first day, and we haven’t received anything that I didn’t know already. Go to him.” Óin tells him and walks down the hall, leaving Thorin alone.

Thorin sits in the hall for a long time, eyes puffy and the tear tracks down his face making his cheeks itch. He feels raw, like his innards have been scooped out, tossed like a _salad,_ and jammed back into his body. This is not supposed to happen, not to Bilbo. Not the kind-hearted and brave Hobbit who followed a bunch foolish Dwarves and one Wizard across Middle Earth—on a suicide mission no less—to converse with a dragon and then live to tell the tale; not only did he manage to burgle said dragon, but he stole the heart of a King while he was at it. He achieved all of this and then valiantly attempted to stop a war at the expense of his own safety. Bilbo did not earn this fate.

His body feels heavy but he manages to stand up, using the wall to support him until he’s no longer wobbly. He goes back into Bilbo’s room and sits on the chair at his bedside. Bilbo is sound asleep although his breaths are shallow and wheezy, but Thorin is glad he’s able to sleep at all. he hopes it’s enough to allow him to as. He wishes to hold Bilbo’s hand, but Óin tucked it beneath the blankets, so Thorin settles for resting his head on the bed next Bilbo.

The past two days have nearly been sleepless for Thorin, barely managing to get a couples hours  hours sleep total. When his head meets the bed, he’s out like a light.

The next thing Thorin knows he's being shaken awake, Óin’s voice urgently barking in his ears. Thorin’s disoriented as he’s pulled out of his chair and away from the cot, he can’t understand the words that are being said around him as three Dwarves—Óin’s assistants—rush to obey Óin’s orders. Bilbo is shaking in the bed, blankets kicked down the to end of it revealing pasty legs and ill-kept foot hair. Bilbo is gasping for air and Óin is trying to pull off Bilbo’s nightshirt as the Hobbit wiggles in alarm.

“What’s happening?” Thorin asks, alarmed.

“Bilbo can’t breathe—Hold him!” Óin snarls as he’s pulling Bilbo’s remaining arm from the shirt. “His lung collapsed.”

Two of Óin’s assistants hold Bilbo as still and gently as possible. The third Dwarf hands Óin a damp, yellowed cloth who uses it to wipe down Bilbo’s side, along his ribs. When Óin is done, he hands the cloth back to his assistant and takes the sharp knife they had him. Thorin has to turn away when Óin brings the knife to Bilbo’s skin, where he had used to cloth seconds before. There’s a moment of intense shuffling, airy keening, and quiet curses, but Thorin refuses to look. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on his heavy breathing. His saliva sours and fills his mouth, but he fights the impulse to throw up.

After ten minutes, give or take a few minutes, Óin’s assistants file past Thorin and the Healer’s hand is on Thorin’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing else I can do for him. He’s conscious, but who's to say for how long; so if you have anything to say to him, best do it now. I’ll let the others know.” Óin says solemnly and leaves the room.

When he turns around Bilbo’s torso is wrapped with linen bandages, holding a glass tube—poking out from beneath the layers—in place. It’s connected to a glass container fastened to the frame of the bed, slowly filling with a black substance.

A breathy hiss catches Thorin’s attention and he lifts his eyes up to Bilbo’s face; he looks exhausted, his eyes are ringed red. Thorin tries to keep himself together as he drags the chair he had been sitting in, kicked to the side when Óin and his Dwarves were attending Bilbo, to the other side of the bed, away from the container.

Bilbo tries to smile but it’s over taken by a pained grimace.

Thorin sits down, scooting the chair a little closer, and murmurs, “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to either.” Bilbo slowly replies, the words are almost too soft and airy to hear.

This will be his greatest failure, Thorin thinks. He’d been so swept up in believing that _finally_ things were looking up, but in that moment he let his guard down. Thorin grits his teeth and covers his face with both his hands, digging his palms into his eyes in a poor attempt to dam his tears of shame.

Bilbo’s cool fingers wrap around one of Thorin’s wrists, despite the fact that Bilbo doesn’t have the strength to move him, and attempts to pull it away from Thorin’s face. Thorin lets him.

“It’s not your fault, Thorin,” Bilbo quietly scolds him. “You’re not the one who did this to me. Don’t punish yourself for this.”

“You were always protecting us, protecting _me,_ and I can’t even return the favor,” Thorin hisses miserably as his tears roll down his cheeks and wet his beard.

Bilbo smiles, shaking his head in amusement. “I never did any of those things expecting you to, you silly Dwarf. I did it because I wanted to… at first,” he chuckles. “But then I did it because you were my friends; you were all worth risking my life for. You’ve all become my _family.”_

Thorin takes Bilbo’s hand in one of his own, then reaches over with the other hand to cup the side of Bilbo’s face.

“I would have courted and married you, Umralê,” Thorin declares shakily, tears shamelessly pouring down his face now. “I would have done it sooner if I had known then what I know now. Maralmizu! Forgive me, Bilbo. I love you!” he confesses.

“I love you, too.” Bilbo answers as fresh tears roll down his face. He squeezes Thorin’s hand as tightly as he can manage while Thorin wipes the tears away with the pad of his thumb.

***

Later that evening Tauriel and Kíli, successful in their hunt for Bilbo’s cure, return to a kingdom in mourning, a few hours too late.

***

Thorin’s rage and grief fuel his hunt for the filth that tore Bilbo out of his life, but with the help of his company, and that of Bard, he does find those responsible. It was a group of Men, four of them from the shanty town on the shores of the Long Lake, still bitter and angry over the lake town’s destruction. They spit and curse Thorin, blaming the King Under the Mountain for their misfortune. The Men had paid off a Dwarf to give Thorin ale spiked with the Black Blood.

Thorin calls for their swift execution, carrying out the the Dwarf traitor’s sentence himself and leaving Bard to carry out the Men’s sentencing. Thorin doesn’t react, doesn’t feel anything, when justice is met.

He is cold and silent when it’s time for the burial ceremony. He’s decked out in blacks and greys, newly grown beard now shorn again in his grief, and the braid of a mourning spouse woven into his locks.

Bilbo is dressed up in his finest Hobbit-styled clothing, the set dyed in Durin blue, and laid to rest in a stone tomb in the depths of the Lonely Mountain. Each of the company pays their respects, placing flowers on and around the tomb.

When it’s Thorin’s turn, he approaches Bilbo’s tomb and places a hand against its cool surface.

There are so many things Thorin still wishes to say, but the only thing that comes out is a desperate and haunting cry that echoes through the depths of Erebor.

~~~

_Cold as the northern winds_

_in December mornings._

_Cold is the cry that rings_

_from this far distant shore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umzamê - my greatest gem
> 
> Umralê - my beloved
> 
> Maralmizu - 'I love you' (comes from [this post](https://thedwarrowscholar.tumblr.com/post/129636118364/hi-first-off-thank-you-for-all-your-work-its) by the Dwarrow Scholar)
> 
> 1001 thank you's to moosefrog for all her help with this.


End file.
